uncertainly

 I wonder when times moves across the trees

dragging the clouds I wonder what will become 

of the hours it takes to erase the grass I wonder

what will be built upon those memories we have

almost forgotten I wonder how the glass will break

down and becoming sand I wonder what will the plants

be like that take my place

In to out of everything

when I sit down my stomach swells
over the keyboard grotesque burping sounds
I had meant to write it all down
instead into the bathroom
the eye in the sky in my hand
a reality cut with other realities
doesn't water it down
release all the ideas you've ever had
flush them around and around

Our Book

BEFORE
thoz engels
livin en the vooid
i git songs en
me ed ehbout them,
duncha'no?

BEGINNING
there is nothing

DURING
suffer me
these tears crying
fear and hurt
go along with
love and joy
fractures tectonic
plates
earthquakes
ecstasy
despair

NOW
we are reading this together

AFTER
fall into me
i m us bay b
don't use those
words as we are one
cosmos of stars
planets seemingly
deeper still and
never--

ENDING
There is nothing

Now I'm stealing titles

tossing them on floors
with the rest of the shit
that won't stick on the walls,
won't go anywhere,
doesn't belong anywhere.
I'm stealing titles
wrecking my keyboard
tearing up the keys,

I don't type so fast anymore,
I've noticed I have less to say--

I'mrunningdry--

looking anywhere for a deeper
go-between for a score,
in the meantime I'll play
the literary break-in,
employ the thieves,

much has been written about me
in the future,

a big name--

I've seen it--

just don't know if I'll make it there
before I'm gone.

Cheers

Last day of gray skies
I'll try to make
it--but the space bar
is spent no action
from the right side
no selling my taps
bent on backspace
backspace repetition--
not much left to do
but drown in anonymity,
right? write for the finish--
I said that once, write for the
very, write to the bitter end--
there's nothing left,
nothing more meaningful
than the word--
so get fucking going,
go on--

How I intended it

all words die

on books never opened

in darkened corners

covered in cobwebs,

damp with mildew,

spilling worms,

all writers are 

meant to be
forgotten,

obscured by

anonymity 

or in fame,
poverty or
riches--

to be the 

only thing that

remains, or

to be nothing--

words 

scrawled 

on grave

stones,

slowly 

eroding

like the 

body

like the 

mind

desperately

fading,

failing

black ink,
abyss,
oblivion.

as long as it looks nice

there
are
times
when
all that
matters
is the
shape
and
look
and
feel
of a
poem,
Ill
jus
t stare
at it
ignor
ing
the
words,
bastard
doesnt
have to
say
shit
about
shit
anything
at all
and
its
fine
with
me
as
long
as
it
looks
nice

The Unpublished Poems

I worry about them,
scratched in pencil,
sitting still, marks fading,
written in short hand,
edit lines, circles,
little notes aging,
meanings lost to time,

what was I trying to say
two years ago, where
was I when I was walking
Passyunk as the sun set,
where have I gone since then?

I'm afraid they've lost their meaning,
that I've traveled too far
to go back to them, that they've
been wasted on nothing,
left to die anonymously,
left to die ignored,
on my book shelf,
alone.